


My Love, Which is a Building, Which is on Fire

by Intrepyd (Subarucomet)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Blow Jobs, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Bound Together, Dom/sub Undertones, Eventual Sexual Content, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Praise Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Soul Bond, Wet Dream, cliches, featuring:, it'll get sexy soon i promise, it's sexy as of chapter 3, no beta we die like men, sexual awakening, the author's own hubris, unnecessary metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2020-09-30 23:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subarucomet/pseuds/Intrepyd
Summary: Really, they should have expected it. An angel and demon switching bodies? Of course there would be consequences. There’s always bloody consequences.A post-canon romp that involves involuntary soul-bonding of the can’t-be-more-than-a-few-feet-from-another variety (My word!), an angel that’s just discovered lust (The indignity!), and a long-suffering Crowley (Oh, fuck it!).





	1. The Planck Epoch

**Author's Note:**

> A classic fandom trope! I’m re-reading Good Omens! This fic was written to Lady Gaga and Muse! It really is 2010 all over again.
> 
> (forgive me, I’m not british)
> 
> Title is a reference to the song love goes to a building on fire. Mandatory link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ec8Da1JqmB4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Planck epoch is an era in traditional (non-inflationary) Big Bang cosmology immediately after the event which began our known universe. During this epoch, the temperature and average energies within the universe were so high that everyday subatomic particles could not form, and even the four fundamental forces that shape our universe—electromagnetism, gravitation, weak nuclear interaction, and strong nuclear interaction—were combined and formed one fundamental force.

Crowley slips into his body the way he slips into bed: with arms outstretched, a great lurching jump and a contented sigh. The springs of his spine squeak in protest before settling. His pants are tight, his hair is styled, he doesn’t have to smile anymore—the world is good (or evil, or both—it doesn’t matter).

The world stays like that for the rest of the evening—suspended in miraculous and ineffable normality. There’s music, and Aziraphale, and truly spectacular wine. An angel and demon dine at the Ritz and a nightingale sings on Berkeley Square as cars squeal past. It should end like this, a proper denouement—soft, sweet, not drawn out so long as to get boring. 

Crowley is idly contemplating his upcoming and much deserved week-long nap as he weaves through cars, close enough to their sides that it gives the alarming suggestion of danger without doing any real harm (except, perhaps, to people’s blood pressure). There are honks, enraged yells, the crystalline voice of Freddy Mercury; Aziraphale is uncharacteristically quiet in the seat next to him. They haven’t discussed it yet—the great earthen bedrock beneath the words ‘our side.’ Crowley likes to think that it’s because they don’t need to but that’s too big of a lie even for a demon.

“Aziraphale,” He starts. The Bentley swerves dangerously close to a family slow-moving tourists.

“Yes, my dear.” Aziraphale answers absently. The family remains unharmed to clog the streets another day. His pale eyes are lit by the headlights of oncoming cars–first pollen yellow, then dove’s wings, then the rarefied shade of blue at the edge of the atmosphere. Crowley’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

“The offer still stands, if you need a place to stay that is.” He says quickly.

Aziraphale smiles. Crowley doesn’t see it so much as he feels it, a warm gust of wind catching the edge of his wings. “I’m afraid not. I think I’ll be spending the next few days doing inventory.” By that Crowley knows he means furiously reading all of the new books Adam has left him.

Perhaps it’s better this way; breaks are good. Especially now, when everything between the still feels so sudden and vital. It’s hard to let go of the immediacy, the urgency that came with living under a doomsday clock. For so long it had been only now and only them—a beating heart in the cradle of his palm. Crowley doesn’t want to do anything regrettable. Impulse only existed out of that preternatural human understanding of finity: to see a want fulfilled right then, at that moment, because what if the opportunity never came again? He needs time to slip back to his old ways, when all they had was the endless sprawl of eternity.

He stops outside Aziraphale’s newly unburnt bookshop and doesn’t say_ let’s not the evening end so soon. I found some lovely 1841 Veuve Clicquot back at my place; come with me—it’ll be a nightcap. _Instead, he says: “We’re here,” gesturing in an awkward yet perfectly British manner.

Aziraphale looks back at him, starts forward as if he might hug Crowley—kiss him even, though that coffee-steam-swirl of hope is swiftly crushed by the iron-toed boot of Crowley’s conscious mind–before he places a delicate hand on Crowley’s shoulder and says with such perfect and sublime sincerity, “Thank you for everything, my dear.” Aziraphale smiles: a gust of cool wind, the gentle fan of his eyelashes looks like spun silver from up close. A heavenly choir reaches its crescendo—_Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me!_—and Crowley thinks _I love you_ stupidly (and the thought is very stupid because he doesn't even know he's had it).

“It’s no problem, angel,” says Crowley coolly, daring his vascular system to even think of blushing. Fat lot of good that does him because then Aziraphale leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. The cells on his face descend into chaos, irrepressible revolution, and by the time Aziraphale moves back Crowley is doing a remarkable impression of a gammon.

“Bye,” Crowley says, hurricane-struck.

Aziraphale waves a jaunty goodbye and leaves the Bentley. He’s only a few feet away, just as Crowley’s mind is recovering, before a swift pain arcs through the both of them. It is nothing like the disorienting swoop of discorporation. In fact, it is nothing like anything either of them have ever felt before; this was a whole new existential plane of intensity. Luckily for our mortal readers, there is a human analogue—one that Crowley and even Aziraphale had come close to experiencing on a few occasions—that is being kicked in the balls. To be more precise, in this case it was more like the metaphysical knee of God had been jammed brutally into the most sensitive part of their soul: their metaphysical testes, if you will. Excruciating didn’t cover it. At least it wasn’t so bad as child birth.

* * *

“Dear Lord, what was that?” Aziraphale has a sweaty hand around the stem of a wine-glass. He’s wilted a little with worry, spine conforming to the drowse of alcohol and the curve of the old sofa in the back-room.

“Haven’t a clue.” Crowley says. He’s on the opposite end of the sofa, legs gathered up in front of him. He doesn’t have the energy to sprawl.

Aziraphale curls forward, wineglass tilting dangerously though the wine has the good sense to stay firmly inside.“I thought we would have more time. They must have figured it out. God, what will happen to the both of us?” He turns to Crowley, dewy-eyed and face flushed with drink. He looks sick.

“It’s time to sober up, angel.” Crowley says gently, setting his glass down on the floor next to him. He grimaces; the bottles fill up rapidly. When he opens his eyes, the glare of the dim Churchill-era bulbs launches a brief and decisive assault on his retinas. He grabs around for his sunglasses before they are carefully placed on the bridge of his nose by Aziraphale.

“You have nice eyes.” Aziraphale says absently, thumb scraping against the tattoo on Crowley’s face before pulling his hands back abruptly. “Now to the task at hand.” Aziraphale’s voice wavers but he straightens up. He doesn’t look quite as sick anymore, just pale.

“Thanks,” says Crowley. He will revisit that moment many times in the future. His glasses are slightly askew and he adjusts them. Another hurricane ravages through his mind. The death toll numbers in the thousands.

“That didn’t feel like divine punishment.” Aziraphale says.

“Didn’t feel like infernal punishment much either.” There weren’t enough pointy things for a start.

They sit silently for a moment, thinking. “If they’d figured it out,” Aziraphale says, “then they’d have come for us by now. It’s not heaven’s style to delay things like this.”

“Maybe they’re trying to make us sweat.” If it was true, Crowley would be impressed. Mind games—he hadn’t expected elegance and subtlety from either of their former sides.

“How could they have known?” A thousand never to be eaten sushi dinners float in front of Aziraphale’s mind’s eye. The sight is more terrible than the face of Satan. “You said no one was looking.” He looks at Crowley reproachfully.

Crowley was a crawly thing, a creepy thing: a being of sneak and sinew. He is mildly offended by the accusation. If there was someone looking he would have known. “There wasn’t.” He says shortly.

Aziraphale’s eyes soften, “I’m sorry, my dear. I don’t mean to blame you. It’s just—none of this makes sense. You should’ve seen Beelzebub after I was done. I put the fear of God into them. You would’ve loved it.”

“Yes, the bath towel and the rubber duck.” It is the divine and ineffable irony of God that his greatest moment as a demon was when he wasn’t one at all. “We’re missing something.”

He sinks deeper into the couch and reviews the facts. Aziraphale sinks with him until their both pressed up shoulder to shoulder and staring up at the bare ceiling—two broken halves of the great _Titanic_.

Fact 1. No one saw him and Aziraphale switch back. In fact, no one could even suspect them of switching. Despite most demons being of angel stock, there remained a creeping belief on either side that even touching each other would lead to dangerous consequences. What those consequences were, no one could say, but such was the nature of prejudice.

Fact 2. Neither of their sides was well-coordinated or plain smart enough to think of psychological warfare. The Ethereal and Occult tended to be far more straight-forward than humans assumed.

Fact 3. Both he and Aziraphale experienced the same thing at the same time. Unless the Prince of Hell and Arch-Angel fucking Gabriel were somehow staring at a crystal ball together it was impossible for that to happen. And Crowley doubts that the rift between heaven and hell would have mended over the lives of two relatively minor defectors.

(“Aziraphale, would you please stop shaking your leg. It’s distracting.”

The leg next to him shakes harder in protest.)

Fact 4. A war had just been averted. A war that everyone had been working towards since the beginning of everything ever. The aversion of said war meant that there was probably a significant amount of paperwork to be filled—withdrawals to be un-withdrawn, weapons to be un-issued, battle plans to be un-written or re-written or perhaps never to be written at all. Peace was always such a difficult time.

Fact 5. Perhaps the most important fact of all, Adam had promised. Crowley did not often put much weight into the promises of children but he felt the words of the was-once-yet-never-was Antichrist held greater power—reality-altering power—even if he was ostensibly a ‘normal boy’ now. Not that adolescent boys could every _be_ normal: their hormones alone could kill an elephant—

“Did I always have such ugly wallpaper?” Aziraphale says, “It really is damnably ugly. Why didn’t you ever tell me?” He turns to Crowley, nose so close it glances past the column of Crowley’s throat.

“Pardon, angel.” Aziraphale’s breath is warm and distracting. They need to focus—

“—I mean you claim to be so fashionable with your minimalism and tight pants, and yet you let your oldest friend have possibly the most disgusting wallpaper to ever paper a wall. Who let me buy this? It’s perfectly atrocious. My Lord, that shade of puce looks like Satan’s arsehole—”

“Aziraphale! You didn’t sober up, did you?” Aziraphale’s head has fallen into the crook of Crowley’s shoulder and it is heavy but feels oddly precious. Crowley sinks lower so that Aziraphale’s neck doesn’t hurt.

“I did! But then you just sat there like a gargoyle for half an hour and I tried talking to you but you didn’t respond and I thought maybe you were asleep and then I got tired of feeling so awful so I decided to get back my buzz.” He extends the zzz and makes a gliding movement with his hand until it lands on the edge of Crowley’s jacket and tugs on it lightly. His face is too close, lips smashed right up against Crowley’s collarbone. If you listen closely you can hear God’s laughter right beneath Crowley’s panic. Isn’t it a lovely sound? “It’s really a shame about the bees. Such industrious little fellows.”

“Aziraphale, you need to sober up.” Crowley says desperately. “Things are not all tickety-boo.”

“Now, Crowley.” Aziraphale uses his hold on Crowley’s jacket to heave himself upward and speaks in the tone of voice he usually reserves for young children, door-to-door salesmen and Evangelists. “I am an angel and what I say is the wisdom of God Herself. There’s no use thinking our heads off about it; we just have to stay close and everything will be fine.”

“Stay close!” Crowley shoots up rapidly like there’s a fire-cracker in his back-pocket. Aziraphale falls forward into the space he had recently occupied. “Oh, Angel, you’re a genius.”

“I am?” Aziraphale says, face squished into the sofa. “I am!” He whoops.

“Okay now, angel, you really need to be sober for this.” Aziraphale looks mildly put out. “Please.” Crowley adds sweetly and the bottle on the table fills up again.

“Oh, Christ!” Aziraphale says, absolutely hammered by the sheer weight of sobriety. “What have I done?”

“I need you to stand up,” Crowley says impatiently as Aziraphale struggles futilely against the tartan throw on the seat cushion. “Up!”

Witness: the setting, a back-room of an old bookshop in Soho, a midden of wine-bottles, the ugliest wallpaper and sofa combination in all of time immemorial and for all time going forward. Witness: an angel, smelling vaguely of booze, his bow-tie mangled, listing sideways like an over-filled bookcase. Witness: a demon, rumpled, vaguely sweaty, pacing like a bat out of hell which he was in a certain way.

Watch them move: suddenly, swiftly, twirling around each other like binary stars. The tall, dark one gestures, grins. The small, soft one nods, smiles beatific.

Feel the air. It moves beneath your wings.

Hear them speak: “Oh! Oh, I get it. You’re brilliant, Crowley. I knew they couldn’t have caught us. You think we ought to test it out?”

“We should. Just to make sure. It couldn't be them! Haha! There has to be somehing wrong with us. Just us! Angel, we’re safe!”

Creak. Creak. The old wood moans. Distance.

“Ahhhhhh!”

“Oh, _fuck_!”

Groan. "Let's never do that again."

Thump. Thump. Thump. An irate neighbour. “It’s 4 a.m., you bloody wankers. Shag each other on your own time! People are trying to sleep!”

Laughter.


	2. Grand Unification Epoch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In physical cosmology, the grand unification epoch was the period in the evolution of the early universe when three of the four fundamental interactions—electromagnetism, the strong interaction, and the weak interaction—were unified as the electronuclear force. Gravity had separated from the electronuclear force at the end of the Planck era. During the grand unification epoch, physical characteristics such as mass, charge, flavour and colour charge were meaningless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so much work but these idiots make me feel soft

* * *

I've realised something terrible," says Crowley, wheezy from the thunderclap of pain and ensuing laughter. They’ve cracked open the bubbly again. How could they not? Everyone’s entitled to a little celebration, especially after saving the world.

"What?" Asks Aziraphale, collapsed next to some perilously stacked copies of Dante. (Aziraphale adores Dante: the man took self-insert fanfiction to an _art form_.)

"Since this isn't not a 'them' problem but an 'us' problem," Crowley pauses, rises up on his elbows and decants himself in the general direction of the sofa, "which I have to say is good because we aren't in any danger of being kidnapped and blasted into oblivion."

Aziraphale giggles in agreement. Being assured of one's continued existence is quite the intoxicant. That and £700 champagne.

"The question arises, Aziraphale,” Crowley gestures grandly, forgets that he is in a very cramped backroom, almost knocks over some bottles before glaring them into stability. “Erm, yes, the question arises as to what exactly is the nature of _this_ problem?"

"Metaphysically or practically, Crowley?” Aziraphale says, futilely adjusting his bow-tie into a semblance of a bow-shape. He gives up, turns over to his side to face Crowley, elbow bent and head propped against his hand.

Crowley waves in a manner that suggests he doesn’t care either way or that he’s shooing away a fly.

“Metaphysically speaking, my dear, I haven't the faintest. And practically speaking? I'd say we'd better get used to a lot less privacy."

“Can’t be worse than that Facebook or Google.” Crowley shudders, “social media was already awful, but off humans went and made it worse.”

“They’re good at that, these humans. Funny little things but you have to love them. Almost as industrious as bees.”

They lapse into silence, thinking of humans and civilisation and hanging beehives. Crowley remembers Babylon, remembers its hanging gardens, remembers St. James’s Park and remembers ducks.

“Ducks!”

“Pardon.”

"It’s always ducks! This – this thing, our problem, doesn't it remind you of those cute little ducks we saw in that video that kept following around a cat. Do you think that could have happened to us?”

“What, that we imprinted on each other like a supernatural trauma-bond?" Aziraphale’s eyebrows scrunch together and he has a long, hard think about it, right on the floor. “No, no. I don’t believe so. Imprinting is more species-related than distance-related and I don’t feel very demon-y. Do you feel very angel-y?”

"No. Not at all. Demon-y as ever, I am.” He wiggles his fingers ominously for effect. “Damn it all. I’m at my wit’s end.” Crowley's sigh turns into a quiet hiss.

“Tell me, Crowley, what did your lot do at team-building retreats?"

"Hmm? Why does that matter?”

"It all seems a little demonic to me. Maybe it's one of hell's team-building exercises and we've gotten ourselves stuck in it by accident."

“No, we don't even have those. Wouldn't work at all down there. Demons all hate the stuffing out of each other.” Aziraphale tactfully does not mention that most angels hate the stuffing out of each other too. “Although, angel, you make an interesting point. This seems like soul work, which is Heaven-stuff. What did _your_ lot do?”

“Nothing interesting. We’d go to a beautiful place and spend our time sitting through ruddy long strategy meetings and doing trust falls."

Crowley's nose wrinkles at fall. “Sounds worse than Hell.”

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley and smiles, “it was. I like it much better here.”

Crowley’s stomach swoops like he’s gotten caught in an updraft and has soared suddenly thousands of feet upwards. “I do too,” he says softly.

Aziraphale’s smile becomes somehow brighter. “I have an idea.” He levers himself off the ground and stands in front of Crowley, hand outstretched. "Come on, you have to drive us."

Crowley grasps it without hesitation and pulls himself up. "Oh, where to?" He says, sobering.

"Where else? Tadfield."

* * *

The drive, by the grace of a few minor miracles, is far shorter than it should be. It helps that they depart just past dawn when most things—humans, animals, angels, demons alike—are all at home resting. The birds sing—love songs and morning songs and nest songs. The sun rises, peaks out its radiant face between pillows of clouds before demuring, sinking back into cloud-cloth.

“So you think you can love me and leave me to _die! _Oh, baby, can't do this to me, baby! Just gotta get out, just gotta—oh, we’re here.” Crowley says, mildly disappointed that they couldn’t finish the song within the length of the drive.

“Do you think they’ll be awake? I don’t want to disturb them.” Aziraphale asks belatedly as they walk across the garden into Jasmine Cottage.

“This is urgent, angel. I’m sure they’ll understand.” Crowley is about to knock before the door before is pulled open and they are ushered inside and onto the nearest sofa.

“I’ve been expecting you,” says Anathema, looking immaculately goth but also ready to take-down a major corporation.

“Hi!” says former Witchfinder Private Newton in the corner, sipping tea while sitting in his favourite Doctor Who pyjamas.

“Hullo,” says Aziraphale brightly for the both of them because he knows Crowley thinks greeting people makes him look less cool—as if a middle-aged man with a facial tattoo and perpetual shades was _ever_ going to look cool. “Lovely to see you all again so soon.”

“Oh, would you like a cuppa?” Newton asks because they’re guests and his mother raised him properly. “Biscuits, maybe?”

Aziraphale refuses but appreciates the gesture nonetheless. With that social ritual completed our story continues.

“So, what do you need?” Anathema asks, squinting at them, “Oh, I see it.”

“What? What do you see?” Crowley says. “Is it bad?”

Anathema shakes her head. “Not bad,” she reaches for her glasses and pushes them up the bridge of her nose, “just weird.”

Crowley taps his foot impatiently. “Weird, how?”

Aziraphale taps him on the knee admonishingly. “Give her a moment, dear.”

“You know how all beings have their own auras,” Anathema starts.

“Of course we do! This isn’t kiddie-angel-baby school!”

“Crowley, let her finish,” Aziraphale says sharply.

“Well, you don’t have two auras anymore. You used to,” She adds a dramatic pause that has Crowley gripping the edge of his cushion—in anticipation or anger, who can tell?, “but now I can only see one shared between the both of you!”

“Is that even possible?” Aziraphale asks, slowly pulling the cushion away from Crowley lest it be covered in claw marks. Crowley makes a sound like an injured rabbit. Aziraphale leaves the cushion with him; the poor dear needs it.

“Apparently so,” says Anathema. “First time I’ve ever seen it. Sometimes, with couples that have been together a long time, you’ll see some psycho-chromatic overlap—you know how when dogs start to look like their owners—but it’s still always their own aura. Although, I think I remember—” She gets up abruptly and rushes upstairs.

“Wait, so are we more like the dogs or the married couples?” Aziraphale calls after her but she doesn’t respond. There is the distinct sound of fabric ripping. Aziraphale miracles the cushion alright again and pats Crowley on the back soothingly. “There, there,” he says.

“Angel, you’re taking this too lightly.” Crowley says, shrugging Aziraphale’s hand off.

“On the contrary, I’m waiting to be presented with all the facts before dissolving into panicked cushion-mauling.”

Crowley tucks the cushion behind him. “There, happy?”

Aziraphale nods. They sit together silently for a moment before Newton pipes up with proper British pedigree. “Nice weather we’re having.” It’s grey and damp; the sun remains resolutely behind its coverlet in a teenage strop.

“Yes, lovely.” Aziraphale answers, “though I’ve heard it may rain soon.” Not on the telly or anything, but he heard the clouds talking about it some miles back.

“Really!” Newton says, as though Aziraphale has informed him of something completely and totally unexpected despite the fact that it rained approximately everyday somewhere in England.

Luckily, Anathema returns back before the river of mundane small-talk can run dry. “Yes! I knew it.” She’s carrying a dusty old leather-bound book. _One-of-a-kind first edition_, its papers rustle to Aziraphale, who looks at it with unguarded longing.

“What do you have for us?” Crowley says, reaching over for the book.

“Here,” says Anathema, handing the book to Crowley but she’s intercepted by Aziraphale plucking it from her hands.

It’s hand-written and the bradel binding—it’s calf-skin, the leather is so _supple__—_is exquisite. Aziraphale runs one worshipful finger down a yellowed page before Crowley snatches it away from him. “Give it here. You’re not taking this seriously and you are _not_ asking to buy it,” Crowley warns pointedly.

Aziraphale looks back at the book mournfully one last time. _Good bye_, he whispers.

“_The Sharing of Auras is a Special and Arcane Magick.”_ Crowley reads,_“Borne from the Unione of Tw__ain, it is the Bonding moste Sublime of Souls. Little more is Knowne, Excepte that the Unione is Blessed by God and __the two __may not be __S__under__ed __until_ _ They Know Thy Self and Each Other.__” _Crowley flips to the next page and his eyes scan over the text. “There’s nothing else. That was useless.” He closes the book angrily.

Aziraphale squeaks. “Not so roughly, dear boy.”

Anathema looks between them appraisingly. “I guess there is no better aphrodisiac than the end of the world.”

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale says politely (because politeness always required apologizing for things you were not sure about.)

“You know,” she nods meaningfully, “_unione of twain_.”

Newton takes this moment to quietly leave the room and brew a pot of chamomile tea—his mother always said it had calming properties, which would be needed sooner rather than later.

As a creature of lust, Crowley catches on first, “Oh, my God. Angel, she thinks we had sex.”

Comprehension dawns in Aziraphale’s eyes and colours his cheeks sun-rise pink. “Oh, no!” He says, his voice high. “It was nothing like that. We just switched bodies.” He laughs nervously, “Good Heavens, what would give you such an absurd idea?”

“_Unione of twain_.” She repeats again before her eyes soften with sympathy, “I’m not going to judge you. I get it. I’m a witch with a Witchfinder.”

Crowley’s chest aches. He looks at Aziraphale spluttering and blushing and thinks _I love you _so loudly and so despairingly that he himself can almost hear it. “It’s nothing like that.” He says instead, sharp as a knife. “Aziraphale and I are old friends, that’s all.”

Anathema turns to look at Crowley and her gaze unnerves him. He feels like Eve, in the garden, suddenly aware of her nakedness and ashamed. “My mistake then,” she says, “must work differently for humans than for angels and demons.”

Crowley can sense lies; she’s telling one but he refuses to bring it up. Let her believe what she does.

“I think we’re getting distracted by the minutiae.” Aziraphale interrupts. “Maybe we can focus on the next part: the ‘_may not be __S__under__ed’ _bit sounds important.”

“Yes,” she says, “Of course. Can you both do something for me? I think it might be literal so just stand and walk away from each other.”

Both Aziraphale and Crowley pale. “There’s no need for that,” Aziraphale says, “We’ve tried it before and the result was painful.”

She adjusts her glasses. “Painful,” she says thoughtfully. “That’s interesting. How far apart can you two be before it starts to be uncomfortable?”

“Maybe 4 metres?” Crowley says.

“Maximum 5.” Aziraphale chimes in.

“Do you want to test that out?” Anathema asks.

The Occult and Ethereal miraculously align and the answer is no.

“Can I at least see you two move apart? Nothing farther than what your comfortable with.”

Crowley and Aziraphale both stare at each other before coming to a silent agreement. They both stand up and hesitantly move apart, like a child afraid to lose sight of their parent at a busy Sunday market.

“This is amazing!” Anathema exclaims.

“What is?” Crowley asks, wordlessly communicating that here, at the 3 metre mark, is where they’ll stop. Aziraphale ignores said communication and continues blithely walking backwards. “Stop!” He yells and Aziraphale startles backwards. Crowley cows the floor and greedy grasp of gravity with a harsh glance from beneath his sun-glasses; Aziraphale doesn’t fall. The Earth’s core quivers with fear—there’s a minor earthquake somewhere off the coast of Niue—before settling.

Anathema says, “Your aura, it’s – it’s stretching.”

“That sounds bad,” Aziraphale says, “That’s bad, right.”

“It’s not anything. Your soul, it’s getting thinner. You might be feeling a tight sensation all over.”

Crowley always feels like his skin is too-tight all over with Aziraphale. When he was a younger, newer demon—fresh from falling and dusty with hell-dirt—he’d thought that he was moulting every time he went near the angel. He focuses on his skin, on the pores and hair and thin tissue that cover the hell-heat inside. It’s already tight, this vessel, narrow and sinewy, but even so this is unnatural. He breathes, blood trembling like a bow-string to the strum of his heart. Or it could be his new jeans.

“I thought I was gaining weight.” Aziraphale says happily, “At least I don’t have to go on a diet.”

“You can’t gain weight, angel. And if you did, you wouldn’t need to _diet_.” Diet’s were hell’s work through and through. It wasn’t _his_ work but he thinks the demon who thought it up received a commendation from Lucifer himself.

“I thought I might be getting a little soft.” Aziraphale says, patting the curve of his stomach morosely.

“You look great.” Crowley says fervently, “Best angel I’ve ever seen.”

Aziraphale blushes.

“_Blessed by God_.” Anathema says abruptly, radiating awkwardness. “Your union is blessed by God. It says it in the book.”

“Nice to know I still have Her approval in some ways.” Crowley mutters sarcastically.

“I’m sure that’s just a human pontificating.” Aziraphale says, “What would they know of Her Ineffable Plan?”

“I don’t think so,” Anathema says with mild offence. “This was one of my ancestors. I doubt they would exaggerate in a _Treatise of Magickal Maladies Moste Profound_.”

Aziraphale considers the idea. “The soul is Her domain. No being—neither arch-angel nor Satan himself—can warp it this manner.” He looks pleased almost. “Maybe our side is blessed, then. We are meant to be. Eh, Crowley?”

Crowley thinks all at once of Falling. The problem with Falling is that one has trouble believing again: in happiness, in God,and most of all in their own Goodness. “I doubt it.” He says shortly.

Aziraphale’s face falls.

_I’m sorry_, Crowley thinks, _but we can’t be blessed; I don’t deserve you and She knows that_. He opens his mouth to try and explain but is interrupted by Newton coming in with a tray piled high with scones, biscuits and, “Tea everyone!”

* * *

Tea is awkward. Crowley sits and watches Aziraphale eat. It’s usually a mindless yet enjoyable activity: _Look at him eat that scone—he’s so happy. There’s jam on his nose, maybe I’ll wipe it off_ but he never does. But right now Aziraphale looks sad enough that even cream and sugar can’t fix it.

“It’s interesting that you two mentioned body-swapping and _know__ing__ thy self_,” Newton says, mouth full of biscuits, flagrantly ignorant of the mood (His mother, bless her heart for trying, could never quite get him to the read the room). “Because—and it’s a weird coincidence—a few weeks ago I was reading this fantastic science-fiction and fantasy novel online and it said something about how body-swapping is irreversible.”

“Maybe this isn’t the time to talk about Doctor Who fanfiction—” Anathema says, but Former Witchfinder Private Newton Pulsifer marches triumphantly on.

“When I read that I was thinking: hang on, can’t you just switch back easily like putting your tea in a different cup.” He demonstrates but ends up splashing it over the side of the cup and onto his hands. “Ow, thanks for healing that by the way. And this is where the idea gets really neat: you can’t separate your consciousness or your soul, I guess, from your body, because a part of your soul _is_ your body. It got me thinking, you know, because I’ve always viewed myself as sort of a brain carried around by a body, that you can’t separate _who_ you are from _what_ you are, you see?”

Crowley most emphatically does not see. He looks over and Aziraphale looks equally baffled and there’s a damned spot of cream right at the tip of his nose. He resists the urge to clean it away.

“Wait, you don’t get it?” Newton asks, looking between them like he’s said something deeply profound and is awaiting their adulation.

Was there something to get from that ramble beyond a headache? Aziraphale has the creeping suspicion that the grotesque, Lovecraftian sight of Lucifer may have caused Newton’s tiny human mind to implode on itself. “Newton, you mentioned this was a fiction book?” He says delicately.

“Maybe be a bit more clear, Newt.” Anathema says patiently. She does not look as concerned with Newton’s mental well-being as she should be.

Newton in breathes in sharply and begins again: “What I’m trying to say is, maybe this whole soul business is because when you body-swapped or soul-switched, you didn’t do it entirely. This means that part of your soul could have been left behind in your vacated bodies. And, uh, Anathema mentioned how people who’ve known each other for some time have similar souls—”

“I said married couples, yes.”

“—Married couples, anyway. So your souls are probably really similar after knowing each other for like the length of the existence of everything, right? So maybe they sort of mixed together inside your bodies and when you switched back. Boom! Your souls don’t know which body is there’s anymore and you’re both stuck with one mega-soul. That’s where the ‘_Know Thy Self and Each Other_’ bit comes in. You have to know who you are and who the other person is if you want to have your own souls again. Or they mean like the biblical knowing of each other. It could be either, really.”

The room descends into the still and sudden quiet after a rainstorm. The tea has gone cold.“That’s not actually a terrible idea.” Anathema says. 

Newton beams. “I thought of it while making tea!”

Aziraphale frowns, discomfited. “But I know myself. And I know Crowley.” He looks imploringly at Crowley. “You know me and you know yourself.” It’s a statement of fact more than a question.

“Of course I do, angel.” Crowley answers because he does: Aziraphale is _good_ and Crowley is _bad_. It’s simple.

“Well try to get to know him better. It’s not like that’ll be hard when you’re going to be living so close to each other for the foreseeable future.” Anathema says, “Also, Aziraphale, you’ve got a bit of uh, cream on your nose.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale says blushing, and hastily wipes it away. “Well, we don’t want to impose on you any longer. Thanks so much for you help and the lovely tea.” He gives Crowley a meaningful look.

“Thank you for the tea.” Crowley says begrudgingly and they both stand up to leave.

Crowley’s just at the door when Anathema pulls him to the side. “You _know_ he loves you,” she whispers. Aziraphale has gone up ahead and is saying daft and lovely about country air and flowers.

_Of course he does_, thinks Crowley darkly._ He loves everything. He’s an angel_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it. I finished the chapter! 
> 
> Also if you want, drop me a message on tumblr at www.intrepyd.tumblr.com.


	3. The Electroweak Epoch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In physical cosmology, the electroweak epoch was the period in the evolution of the early universe when the temperature of the universe had fallen enough that the strong force separated from the electroweak interaction, but was high enough for electromagnetism and the weak interaction to remain merged into a single electroweak interaction. Some cosmologists place this event at the start of the inflationary epoch, when the universe underwent an extremely rapid exponential expansion. This rapid expansion increased the linear dimensions of the early universe by a factor of at least 10^26, and so increased its volume by a factor of at least 10^78. Expansion by a factor of 10^026 is equivalent to expanding an object 1 nanometer (10^−9 m, about half the width of a molecule of DNA) in length to one approximately 10.6 light years (about 62 trillion miles) long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The longest chapter yet. Full of purple-prose and weird metaphors. warning for the use of second person for artistic effect in the dream sequence

The car is quiet. There’s no music. The clouds above burst into heaving wet sobs.

“Your place or mine?” Aziraphale asks. There’s a forced smile levering the corner of his lips: the humour falls flat as a puddle.

Crowley’s eyes remain fixed on the road. “I’d say mine considering your place doesn’t have a bed.” Or kitchen. Or extra rooms. It was mostly a shrine of books that smelt vaguely of Aziraphale. He takes an exit sharply.

“Moving a little fast there.” The laugh that follows is strained.

Crowley looks at him through the corner of his eye. It’s 1970-something: _Crowley, you go too fast for me, _in that cotton-soft, pretty voice of his; right here in this car, like this exactly. Both facing ahead, pretending not to look at each other. Nothing’s changed. They haven’t moved forward. They’ve been stuck like this for six, sixty, six thousand years.

Crowley shakes his head, shakes the stinging-nettle thoughts from his mind. He is being greedy again and that is never good. He’s happy like this; being near Aziraphale is enough.

“Yeah. Sorry,” Crowley says and eases on the accelerator.

Aziraphale looks at him strangely. “You don’t need to apologise, my dear.”

* * *

Demons are denizens of the dark, of oozy, warm corners and freshly-turned earth. Crowley’s flat smells of fertile soil and the hadean heat of the planet’s core. The walls are painted an austere grey, like deep sea caves hidden far from human eyes. It’s cozy, really.

Crowley regrets letting Aziraphale into his flat. His soul is laid bare here, from the statue of an angel and demon twisted into an ecstasy of a fight (which Aziraphale has thankfully not noticed yet), to the chair that Aziraphale had liked in 1775 but hadn’t bought because it would be _too ostentatious, wouldn’t it?_

Aziraphale follows behind Crowley like a lost puppy. He has no choice but it’s still pathetic. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says politely, because nothing diffuses tension quite like ignoring its presence.

Crowley doesn’t answer.

_You can’t do that to me, my dear,_ Aziraphale thinks. His eyes are drawn to the immaculate rows of house-plants that stand noticeably straighter when they see Crowley watching them. “You keep them beautifully.”

Crowley and the plants preen under his praise. In six thousand years Aziraphale has learned a thing or two about Crowley. First, that he’s far kinder then he pretends to be. And second, that he loves to be complimented—never about himself though—but for the things he does; quick, sincere words of _that’s wonderful_ and _this is __perfect__, thank you_.

He find Crowley’s bookshelf. It’s a spartan thing, very Marie Kondo if Aziraphale knew who that was. It’s mostly astronomy. He picks one up as Crowley refills his plant-mister in the kitchen sink. It opens to a page about Alpha Centauri and how lovely it is this time of year. The universe is vast and endless and it’s supposed to be over, Aziraphale thinks. It’s all supposed to be over.

Here he is sitting on top of a world that should not exist anymore. Here he is, alive and sharing a flat with his best friend. Here he is. Not quite an angel. Here they both are; but he hasn’t thought to ask, should they be?

Aziraphale slumps down onto an uncomfortably high-seat next to the kitchen island and rests his head on his hands. He has watched the world pass by for centuries and this is the first time he’s ever felt like he’s done something, made a difference. Very suddenly, Aziraphale is exhausted. Now that they've stopped after so many years of constant flurry and movement, it all catches up to him. Maybe he was moving too slow, maybe it is time to move faster.

Crowley glances away from the pipette he has placed in a dilute beaker of ammonia (healthy plants need far more than just London tap-water). “Are you alright, angel?” Crowley asks.

“Truth be told, I’m not feeling quite myself.”

“You could try sleeping,” says Crowley without thinking. It’s a terrible habit; this impulse to tempt Aziraphale and he knew it would back-fire on him eventually. It does now, rather explosively.

“Maybe I will. You always said afternoon naps were the best things humans ever invented.” Sleeping had always sounded so absurd, so indulgent, so frightening: close your eyes and lie there and you will be transported to distant lands, experience things you will never be able to explain to anyone else. Another piece of cake, a sunny day in the garden, he could understand. He could never understand dreaming—the terror of it, its shifting, time-divorced nature, the vulnerability of lying under the sky where anyone could get you. But this was a new world and he was a new angel. He had Crowley and it would be fine. He was going to dream.

Crowley almost drops his pipette. “Pardon, angel?” He’d been trying to tempt Aziraphale to sleep for centuries and he’d never once yielded.

“Would you come to the bed-room with me?” Aziraphale asks, sweet as may-bud in the afternoon.

This time Crowley does drop his pipette but the instrument stays firmly in his hands, petrified. Crowley grips it again. “Uh – but, why?”

“If I have to learn sleeping, I’d like to learn it from a pro. And – erm, we can’t really go anywhere without the other being involved.” Aziraphale smiles at him hopefully and Crowley yields like a house of cards hit by a swift gust of wind.

“You sure you want to try it out now, right at this very moment.” _God_, Crowley pleads, _I know you’re up there. Please stop fucking with me._

Crowley can’t hear Her answer, and even if he were to hear it, he would not understand it for Her ways are ineffable and cannot be explained easily to any of Her creations. I am no Metatron, my dear readers, but I can provide a rough translation of Her words if needed and it goes something like this: _Crowley, you snakey love-struck idiot, I’ve been watching this unfold for millennia. Let me enjoy this. _Then she gets the divine equivalent of a glass of Prosecco and settles in comfortably. Her ways are mysterious, truly.

Aziraphale nods decisively.

“It’s a big thing: sleeping. Not very angelic at all. You sure it won’t be too much for you?” _It may be too much for me,_ _alone with you in my dark bed-room._

“You’ll be doing it with me, right? I don’t want to impose on you or anything but you said you were looking forward to a long sleep and it sounded nice—” There it is, that ring of uncertainty. Crowley follows after it, a blind and brave man. An idiot in love.

“You want us to sleep together.” Crowley catches himself, curses his wily tongue. “Uh, I mean sleep in the same bed as me.”

“If you would be so kind.” Which was Aziraphale-speak for yes, very much so and do hurry up.

“Are you quite sure? We’ve done enough new things in the past few days. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to sit down and read instead. Do something familiar.” He looks at Aziraphale closely.

A fire burns in his eyes, resolve. “I think I’m ready for it. After you?” He gestures up the stairs.

Palms sweating, Crowley leads him into the bed-room.

* * *

The stand on opposite sides of Crowley’s bed, which is massive and covered in a black Egyptian cotton duvet.

Crowley’s wearing black silk pyjamas, as if he would wear anything else. Aziraphale has miracled himself something similar except it's tartan. They make quite the pair.

“You first.” Aziraphale says, a bit lost. The determination in his eyes flickers but he thinks I’ve saved the world; I can take a bloody nap.

Crowley awkwardly pulls back the blanket and lies down. “It’s not hard, angel.,” Crowley says. He has one leg sticking out of the blanket: he sleeps warm.

Aziraphale hesitantly lies down on the bed. It is soft and smooth, like being cradled by dove’s wings. “This is nice,” he says. Crowley and him are separated by at least a metre and yet they are far too close.

“Now you just close your eyes and wait.” Crowley claps and the lights shut off, plunging the room into darkness as thick as a fur coat.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Aziraphale says.

“You’re supposed to be quiet.” Crowley says pointedly but he’s smiling, the cantankerous bastard.

They don’t speak after that and it’s so quiet, quieter than it could ever be in London. Aziraphale can hear each and every one of Crowley’s inhales and exhales. He turns towards him, watches the rise and fall of his chest. He counts them: in and out, each breath taking longer until they grow soft and steady, and finally Aziraphale sleeps.

And finally Aziraphale dreams.

* * *

There is an angel who guards the Eastern gate. He holds aloft a flaming sword at Eden. You hate him on principle.

There you are: a sneaking thing, you crawl through the garden. Your belly is low and your skin is hard and cool and smooth like pebbles that line riverbeds. The grass is dark and thick and its susurrates beneath you with genesis—filled with tiny things that bloom and die in seconds and they make the soil so full of lush death, so fecund with life.

You are one of them right now: a creature of twisting muscle and sinew. You are the seethe and teem, the fruit trees hanging replete with fruit. Your tongue tastes the world: it is all heat and all light. And there. In the corner. There is her, a woman, the only woman, Eve, radiant with untouch and ignorance. Her skin is clear and her mouth knows only good, sweet things like fruit-flesh and the touch of Adam. To tempt her is easy. And when she bites into the apple, for she will bite into an apple, death will sigh beneath the surface and all the living will squall anew. Her stabbing teeth will break its crisp, flushed flesh; the juice will flow down from the indents she has made with her pure-bone mouth into its cream-white centre; it will smear her face and drip sticky onto her tongue. The apple will rust in her hand and then she will _know_.

There is an angel. He has curly white hair and a deliciously upturned nose. You look at his broad white wings and you are so jealous. He no longer has his flaming sword. He gave it away, he tells you. He didn’t have to but he did. The first drop of water fall from the sky and he lifts up his wing and covers you. He doesn’t have to but he does.

You wake up in the dark to the sound of mountains crumbling and terrified screams. You lick the air and it is sulphur and burning flesh. A line of humans, a trail of ants, walks up the mountain and their backs do not turn. A woman, an Orfeo, so kind and human-sweet, she turns around and she looks. And she thinks of sinners and their forgiveness and the home she has lost and then she thinks of nothing ever again because she is a pillar of salt. She stands like that, the column of her body turned, her eyes wide and still and beautiful. In centuries, she will wear away into the ground, will dissolve into water and feed the hungry earth. It is a simple human death: dust to dust and ashes to ashes, but you will never forget the way she looked in that moment. That breathless empathy that burned hotter than brimstone and hell-fire. You love that woman, you realise later.

You do not see your sword-less angel but you think he would love that woman too, if you told him about her. You never do.

Time slips by quickly, like a creature with hard, smooth scales flowing through the undergrowth. There are empires and there are wars, there is death and there are babies, there is the swift turn of the world on its axis. Every night, the Earth slows to dance longer with her drifting, distant mistress, the Moon. It’s imperceptible right now, but in billions of years—perhaps you will even be alive for it—there will be a day that is as long enough as the First day, before the sun, moon, stars and Earth, before you or the angel. It will be a thousand years long. On that day, you will tell him.

You see your angel in Golgotha. There you learn that suffering is holy. Pleasure is sinful. You think of Christ on the cross and the rusting blood cupped in his hands. His suffering is holy, ascetic, ecstatic. He hurts. And he is holy. You hurt too, but you are unholy.

Denial, too, is a thing of righteousness. You deny yourself many things but give yourself over to many more. You would deny yourself everything, if it meant you could have him.

You go home to your nest and you think. You think of how you could be good, how you would be good, if only you had the chance. How you would smooth the wrinkle on the angel’s brow. How you would touch him with reverence, this divine, sublime creature.

In Rome, you realize that there are many things you remember that humans forget. You miss some things: how they slept under the stars. They would curl and huddle, nestle into each other for warmth and closeness. You watched them from the ground, fascinated, as the huddling and the nestling became writhing, became wanting: when two things became joined and became one. You would watch and watch and watch and try to understand. You would get close, as close as atoms touching, but never closer. You could tempt one. Demons are tempters and tempting humans has always been so _easy_. But this is not about you. This is not even about them. This is about oneness, about joining beneath the ever-open eye of the sky.

That’s it. That’s all you want: the burn of sand on your back and the whip of the air on your naked, shivering skin. It’s monotheistic, this desire: single and burning and lonely. But you do not want God, you want Her angel. You dream every night, like the Earth does of her moon, for union.

Demon's are made of smoke-less fire, ever-burning and radiant. Human beings have bodies made of malleable clay and wet earth. The light inside them may be divine but they are composed of the underworld. Hell is writ into them: into the bulwarks of their bones, into the fat of their brain. They are marked from birth, already Fallen from Original Sin. You envy them.

You want touch. There’s something glorious about touching. The corporeality of it, of your atoms sliding against another thing’s atoms. God, you _want_ to touch him. But you want even more than that; you would give anything to bridge that gap, bridge that unbearable distance of being singular and separate. You would become a neutron star, collapse inwards into each other and become a black hole. You are such a greedy thing: always grasping, always needing.

You decide somewhere between the centuries and millennia between getting to know him and knowing him that to feel properly you must have a proper body. You do not need a heart. You do not need blood and veins and capillaries; they are unnecessary for your purpose, but you want them, and so in the act of wanting them, you have them. They are borne into being with your will. You press your hand against your chest and feel for the first time a heartbeat. Its fast, fast, fast clench; it’s relentless tempo. You thrum with it. You exist to its beat. Your heart, your skin, your blood, your miracle.

Your body brims with liquid. It goes into your head and hands, then your heart and then lungs and then heart again (but on the left side, where it is bigger) and then into your head and hands. You take a knife and you slice it across the breadth of your palm.

There.

That feeling.

Pain. Like Falling, but different—small and contained, more animal and less empyrean. You miracle it away and the pain disappears.

There is blood. A wet line of it that rusts across your palm.

You are an apple, you realise, but one that is inside out. Your soft, white flesh of knowing and sensing and rusting is on the outside, for everyone to take a bite off. You crisp cream centre lies beneath, aglow with rubies held tight in dark earth.

You press your fingers into your mouth. There is tongue and saliva. Now that you have blood, are aware of its laminar flow in twisting vessels, you know your tongue is heavy with it. Your lips are too. Thick with liquid that rises to the surface and beats, beat, beats against your fingertips. Do you hear me, angel? Do you hear the beat of my body? You think of that foolish human thing, of kissing, of pressing your lips against the angel’s and hearing the beat of his body through his lips.

This flesh aches. You ache. You put your fingers into your mouth, so hot and wet and empty. An apple plucked place hidden in your core. This, here, is your infernal heat. Press your fingers too far and you retch up acid-hell. Still, you crave more. You want your angel’s fingers here. Right at the join where your inchoate body meets the part of you that Fell, that part which is seen only in shadows and the stretch of your wings. You want him to see you.

You are drunk with it. Your flesh. It is ripe with feeling. Overflowing. Yes. Yes. You press greedy fingers against your mouth. Filling. Your skin scintillates. Your body, it doesn’t obey you. Contagions enter your blood-stream: adrenaline and intoxication. You are not feeling lust; in that breathless second, you _are_ lust. How can humans resist this? It is irresistible. You are a pebble at the bottom of a rushing river, scraped and shaped into smoothness.

Your desire unfurls into greater dimensions, expands and takes on new form. The need that was once formless and body-less, now exists physically. You are in your body and you have ascended beyond it, have always been beyond it. You are a creature of sin, a demon of depravity. You let yourself fall to concupiscence for one night. For one night you will let yourself be human.

_Please, Please._ You think. _Please absolve me, please forgive me._ You beg for anything, for all the things you lost, for all things you want but do not let yourself want.

Your blood burns, your soul festers. You let your hands hesitate downwards, against your prick, the sensation muffled by cloth. There is a spark, divine ecstasy. You press your palm to it more firmly, fingers awkward and wet with your mouth. It hardens. You do not want to think of your angel but you do. He calls to you and you are a sailor bewitched by a siren. Helpless, you follow. You follow him into the dark. You crash against rocks. You fall into Charybdis, you sink into Scylla.

Your hand rubs your prick. You’re naked now. The head leaks angel-pearl drops that make the glide crude with wet, smooth noises. _Ah_, you say, surprised because you had no idea it would feel so good. You understand temptation a little more now that you are on the receiving end of it. You think of the things inside him, of the light he contains. He’s not a debased creature so if you peeled him apart, peaked inside, all you would see is arching, heavenly fire. That is the un-empty core of him: celestial, divine.

You grit your teeth. You will do this once and only once. You will never think of it again. You close you eyes and you let yourself think of him. Of the way he fed you salty oysters, the way he licked off the sea-salt on his fingers and moaned. The ocean magic of his eyes, the coral atoll of his lips, the dark lagoon of his mouth.

You think of his fingers in his mouth. He gags on them, his spit drips down his chin but he begs for more. Yes. Your prick in his mouth. This is good. He’d kneel before you like you are some heavenly being and he’d take you into his mouth. He’d let you inside him.

You think of his tongue. Would it be heavy with blood? Would it stick in his mouth like yours is right now? Would he lick you? Would he suck you? Would he like it?

He would. You need him too. He would look at you with those soft, forgiving eyes and say_ I want this, please. Give it to me._ He would be sweet for you. He’s always so sweet. And here you are, desecrating him.

You hate yourself viciously. Your cock wilts, but your blood does not stop burning.

Maybe you’re going about this wrong. You loosen your hold on your prick. You think of the things you want. You want to taste him: the indents behind his ear, the fragile skin inside his knees and between his thighs. You are between his legs. You are a church man kneeling at the altar, praying. Yes. This is where you belong.

You would suck him down and his hands would be in your hair. He would hold you there and you would open your mouth wider. You were built for him, you think feverishly. The spaces inside you were meant to be filled by him, his light. This was your purpose. You were made in service of higher, better creatures; you were made for him.

You whimper. The blood-fire roars hotter. He’s kind. He’d let you touch yourself. So you do. You stuff your fingers into your mouth and you touch yourself because you are a filthy thing, a broken thing. A thing that fell from too high up and could never be fixed again. You fall to your knees against the smooth stone ground and you pray.

Behind your closed eyes, in the hidden corners of your mind, your angel pets your hair, smooths the tears away from your eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he would say in his angelic voice and you are a fool for him, so you obey. “There, take it slowly.” He would feed his cock into your mouth slowly, gently. “Suck it, my dear.” Because he calls you words that mean you are precious. “Yes, just like that.” You conjure up the image of his eyes closing in bliss and moaning. “You’re doing wonderfully, Crowley. You are so good.” And he would smile and the air leaves your lungs.

Yes. Yes. Crowley starts crying again. He wouldn’t need to say it. Aziraphale would understand.

“My dear, you are so good. You take me so well. Aren’t you so good for me?” His voice echoes, baptizes you.

Crowley forces his fingers deeper into his throat, swallows around them and keens. His face is splotchy with tears—an awful, apple red. He is so good for Aziraphale. He will do anything to make him feel good. He knows his purpose. It’s this. These acts of worship.

Aziraphale’s smile coruscates; his skin glitters white-gold. Crowley thinks of him coming, of how he’d hold still and swallow every drop. Aziraphale would curl around him, shield him with his wings. Hold him. Crowley shivers. His cock leaks into his palm onto the floor, a strand of spider-silk. His shoulders hitch with sobs. His knees ache. This is paradise.

He tightens his hold on the base of his cock. Not yet. He won’t come yet. He bends forward onto the floor, hands in front of him.

He breathes. Follows the path of the cool air from the air: into his mouth, through the bifurcating passages of his lungs to the tributaries of his blood vessels. The skin on his body breaks out into goose-flesh, and he blushes red from his chest to his neck.

“You’re a pretty thing.” Aziraphale would say to him, languid with orgasm, when Crowley’s mouth is still wet and apple-bruised, when he’s prostrating in front of him. Aziraphale loves pretty things.

Crowley lowers his head; the blush travels to the tops of his ears. His face is hot.

“Look at me.” He would say. And Crowley does. Crowley loves looking at Aziraphale. This divine creature, made of heaven-glow so bright it hurts his eyes sometimes. The noon-day sun, the flash of lightning, the radiance of a quasar, they are nothing in comparison.

Aziraphale would kiss him then. Kiss away the bruises from his lips and the tears from his eyes. His soft, gentle hand would take Crowley’s cock, jerk it slowly, carefully because Crowley is a precious creature. He’d murmur things. Crowley is not sure what they would be but they would be spoken into his skin and they would be lovely.

He’d card his hands throw Crowley’s hair, flick his thumb against the head of Crowley’s cock, bite softly against Crowley’s Adam's apple. He’d mark him, just there, for everyone to see.

Crowley would grip Aziraphale by the shoulders, fall apart in his hands, dissolve into dust and be remade a better thing. He’d come. Aziraphale would hold him through it. And he does, quietly. Shaking, breaking, breathing.

You wipe a sticky hand on your chest, get up onto trembling legs, and you look at yourself in the mirror, at the vivid bruise you’ve wished into being on your skin. It fades away. You look into your eyes. At their unblinking, sickly yellow. You’re clothed again, aware of your shame. You’ve eaten the fruit and you regret it. You knew you would but you did it anyway. You are tempted, contemptuous.

You close your eyes, walk away and never think of this again.

It plagues you, this feeling. It will never stop plaguing you.

There was an angel who held a flaming sword at Eden. He no longer has it anymore and you love him on principle.

* * *

Aziraphale wakes up with the start. The dream slips from his fingers like water-silk scarf. He’d had it. He’d understood. He looks over at Crowley, sleeping serenely. A spark of something, a bruise on his neck, Crowley’s tear-stained face, a flash of scales.

And nothing. Aziraphale had dreamed and now it was over.

He shifts, uncomfortable and sweating beneath the blanket, skin tacky. He curls onto his side. His body glows like a hot coal, like he’s about to burst into rhapsodic flame.

_This is odd_, he thinks, because he’s breathless and aching. _Oh God_, he realises abruptly: he’s hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk how this chapter was. It's a departure from the usual style of prose I used for the story because I felt the dream sequence required something else.
> 
> low key stuck as to what I should make happen next. should Aziraphale jerk it? should Crowley wake up? Will I ever learn how to plot a fic?
> 
> Also, I hope to get the next chapter out soon because I'm about to move half-way across the globe on Friday so uh, I'd rather not leave you guys hanging.
> 
> also drop me a line on tumblr @ www.intrepyd.tumblr.com


	4. Electroweak Symmetry Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the universe expanded and cooled, a third symmetry breaking occurs once the Higgs Field falls below a certain energy. This broken symmetry decouples the Electromagnetic and Weak force and all elementary particles interacting with the Higgs field become massive, having been massless at higher energy levels. After electroweak symmetry breaking, the fundamental interactions we know of – gravitation, electromagnetism, the strong interaction and the weak interaction – have all taken their present forms, and fundamental particles have their expected masses, but the temperature of the universe is still too high to allow the stable formation of many particles we now see in the universe, so there are no protons or neutrons, and therefore no atoms, atomic nuclei, or molecules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG BUT I HAVE LITERALLY HAD NO FREE TIME. I WILL NOT ABANDON THIS FIC!!!

Principalities, by their nature, are meant to live among humans in order to guide them to the best of their ability. Aziraphale was a very good Principality and he had what some would say was a very ‘when in Rome’ outlook to bodily attachments. He’d gotten a penis—funny human little thing—for the sole reason that it was a part of the whole kit and why not? He hadn’t given it much thought after the initial consultation session with the Quartermaster some six thousand years ago.

He had occupied this body for some time now. It was a good vessel: cozy, worn soft, and capable of carrying many books at a time. He was not a vain creature but he’d grown to like this face, this organic structure. It was not often that his body surprised him; in fact, it had never done so before—heaven-issued vessels are meant to remain firmly in the control of their occupant. At least, he'd always assumed that.

And yet, here he was lying next to Crowley, hard.

_Please, go away, _he thinks firmly but politely because politeness was always the first route one should take with unknown visitors.

Well. He stares down at the tent in the covers that shows no sign of abating. _The sheer gall of the thing! Refusing to listen to an Angel of God._

He tries ordering it down but it does not listen, negotiating with it was fruitless, and so was willing the entire thing away.

Aziraphale is stuck. He thinks vaguely of waking up Crowley to ask him for help but that seemed rude and somewhat inappropriate. His prick twitches suddenly.

“Oh!” He says, alarmed. This was new. Was twitching bad or good? At any rate, it felt quite nice.

He turns to Crowley. He is still sleeping peacefully, face soft and eyes closed. He had such pretty eyes, if only Aziraphale could see them more often. His mouth is pretty too, a lovely shade of pink that reminds Aziraphale of sun-rises over Eden and the inside of cream-skinned, pink-fleshed apples he’d had once in what is now Uzbekistan.

A vision, unbidden, glides out from the dark and into his mind: Crowley with his fingers in his mouth. It’s a startling bubble of thought that ruptures and releases a series of static images. The vivid gold of Crowley’s eyes, looking up at him and lucent with heat; the curve of his smile, bewitching; the sheen of saliva across the length of his slender fingers. There are more thoughts, but they are formless bursts of feeling and sudden need that glisten oily and warm on the surface of his mind. His skin, all at once, feels too sensitive and too tight. He whimpers, overwhelmed.

Crowley shifts next to him, snuffling. His hand reaches out and grasps Aziraphale's tightly."Alright, angel?" He asks tiredly. His hand is hot and smooth, a sun-warmed rock.

Aziraphale thinks helplessly of his and Crowley's fingers. Of their press and tangle. Of the press and tangle of bodies. Crowley's thumb delicately traces the curl of Aziraphale's fist. His thumb presses in, in, inwards before moving back and swiping across Aziraphale's knuckles. He does it again. And again. Aziraphale's breath hitches.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley is growing steadily more aware, more concerned.

Aziraphale's whole body suffuses with slippery, sinuous heat. It suffocates him, clots in his lung and coalesces in his gut. "I'm fine," he says weakly, "just a bad dream."

Crowley's hand grips him tighter. "You're okay, I'm right here." He shifts closer until Aziraphale can feel the humid puffs of breath as he exhales. He smiles at Aziraphale, pearl-pink lips parted, perfect. His eyes are pools of liquid gold, rich and warm and exquisite.

Aziraphale wants to. He wants to touch him, yes. But more: to hold Crowley in his hands and remake him, be remolded by him. Crowley is a bronze statue, glowing gold and ever-touched. "You're here." Aziraphale whispers, over-full in the way an upside down glass immersed in water is, and the pale skin of Crowley's throat glows in dark; an occult being made of chiaroscuro and still water. He wants and wants and doesn't understand.

"I'm here." Crowley says and his voice is so soft and loving that Aziraphale can sense it in the air: that warm blanket weight of Crowley's care. It's not often that Crowley broadcasts his feelings but now they cover Aziraphale.

"Thank you, my dear. I'm fine now," he says to Crowley but he sounds distant to his own ears. Inside: fire-crackers, a dragon dance at the pit of his belly rising like hot air to his chest. His heart beat wavers, fills and clenches to an uneven tempo. Oh, God. Can he hear it? This heart. This failing heart. Crowley squeezes his hands.

"Don’t worry, my dear. You can sleep, Crowley."

Crowley closes his eyes and his mind slips down into crumbling spaces and shifting dream-dust. Aziraphale's hand is tightly clenched in his own, pressed against his chest.

Aziraphale watches him, enraptured. There are new dimensions to Crowley's face, new layers and lines. The divot on his upper-lip, the bronze curl falling across his forehead, the dark smudges of his eyelashes contain some deep and arcane mean that he can't quite grasp, not yet. Perhaps if he keeps looking, then he'll understand.

He looks and looks until his eyes grow heavy. Until they slide close. He falls asleep again, following after Crowley as he always does.

* * *

Crowley rises slowly to consciousness. It's warm and dark like a nest beneath the ground. He yawns, stretches and reorients himself in time. His week-long nap has turned out to be a mere day long sleep. He ambles through this twilight between waking and sleeping.

A shuffle next to him pulls him roughly into awareness. It's Aziraphale, sleeping beside him or, more accurately, around him. Both of their arms and legs are thrown around each other as though they are some many-legged but also very clumsy creature. It figures that the angel would be a cuddler. (Crowley does not consider the possibility that the cuddling was his fault. He's an award-winning demon, thank you very much.)

For a second Crowley let's himself enjoy this. Aziraphale's face is tucked into the hollow of his throat and his hair is flattened on one side. He hugs Crowley in a way that is reminiscent of a child holding onto a beloved stuffed animal.

It is nice.

Then the second is over. He can't stay like this. He pulls one of Aziraphale's arms away from his waist but his grip is formidable. Crowley attempts a snake-y wiggle but Aziraphale hugs him more tightly and mumbles something they could be "Stop moving!" or equally "Schlott's Mooring."

Crowley sighs and accepts his fate, going limp in Aziraphale's grasp. This was, of course, the wrong move.

Aziraphale uses the opportunity to arrange Crowley to his liking. Their chests are pressed up against each other. Aziraphale's leg has somehow managed to wedge itself between Crowley's thighs and is precariously close to parts unknown. Aziraphale shimmies his hips even closer and--

_Oh, my days._

Crowley was aware in the abstract that Aziraphale had come to Earth kitted out with all the human accoutrements, as it were. He made a special note of it when they had switched bodies but he hadn't let himself think of it in more concrete terms. (Having a fascination with your friend's genitalia seemed wrong even to a demon.)

He couldn't ignore it now. Pressed up against him as it was.

He curses God. She was probably sitting under some heavenly fig tree and taking a long sip of wine, having a fabulous time watching the world burn. And, for what would be the first and only time in his long life, Crowley understood Her in Her profound ineffability.

From so close, Aziraphale smells of old books and ozone. Of ball lighting and dust. Crowley inhales guiltily. He hates guilt on principle. Be committed, do wrong. Don't whinge about it later. And yet, if he just rolls his hips, if he just edges closer, if he just shifts slightly he could, he could--

His breath catches. He could. He wants to. But what Crowley doesn’t realise about himself is that on the inside, where the fruit seeds of himself lie hidden, he is good and so he doesn’t move. He lies perfectly still and wills himself back to sleep.

Aziraphale wakes up sweaty but rested in a way that he has never been before. The sunlight peaks through the curtains, edges across the walls, ghost light on matte grey walls. It is peaceful to be like this, lying warm and safe. He is still hard, unfortunately.

* * *

How long has he been hard now? 4 hours? A day? Time is so slippery when he sleeps, a glint of scales in the dark. Centuries could have passed. But no, Crowley would have woken up to water the plants. How long should an erection last anyway? Surely, the situation should have resolved itself by now. This seemed concerning. Should he go see a doctor? Would human medicine apply to heavenly beings? Was this God’s curse on him for questioning Her plan?

He tries to think quietly, so as not to wake up Crowley (who he does _not_ want to wake up while he is in this state).

What did humans do when they lacked knowledge? They didn’t use books anymore. They had an odd little word for it. Poodle? Doodle? Aziraphale racks his brain. Google! Yes. He would Google it like any modern angel.

Carefully, he reaches over for Crowley’s smartphone on the bedside table. He taps the screen. The light momentarily blinds him. Low battery, it complains. Another one of Hell’s inventions.

He slides his finger and the phone unlocks. What a remarkable little device! And to think just a few decades ago they were using rotary phones. Now where was this Google. He scans the screen, index finger poised to tap. There’s no contacts, hundreds of unread messages, something called _flappy bird_ but no Google.

Maybe he was supposed to talk to it. One talked into a phone, didn’t they?

“Um, could I Google something please?” He whispers quietly.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” The phone screams back.

Phone’s could talk back now. Had humans progressed so quickly? He turns his head to the side; Crowley was still slumbering on, completely undisturbed. “Could you be a bit quieter?”

“Lowering volume,” says the phone at a lower volume.

“Thank you so much. Sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

“I’m Siri, your personal assistant. How may I help you?”

“Well, Siri. I’m looking to Google something--” Before he can say anything a white window opens up—Google. “Thank you,” he says, stunned. What a lovely woman. He’s sure she has a place in Heaven.

Into the search bar, he laboriously types in: ‘What should I do when I have an unwanted erection for the whole night?’ What should he press next: Google Search or I’m Feeling Lucky? Was he feeling lucky? Was luck a feeling or a state beyond one’s control. Erring on the side of caution he presses Google search. Moments later he has more answers than he knows what to do with.

He presses the first link. Wikihow, it says brightly at the top of the page. For some reason, it is illustrated. Distract yourself, it says first. So he does. He thinks of him and Crowley walking through St. James’s Park; it’s usually a very peaceful memory, one he likes to revisit when he’s feeling lonely or sad. Now the only thing he can think of is how Crowley walks.

The sinuous roll of Crowley's hips is magnetic. _Who walks like that?_ Aziraphale thinks plaintively. It was like he was on a catwalk and had no knees to speak off. It was unfair. It was indecent.

Crowley, the bastard, probably spent time planning and perfecting that walk. It was a part of his ensemble as much as snake-skin shoes were. There would no Crowley without those swivelly hip movements.

It seemed distracting himself was futile. He glances at the next suggestion. And he had no grandmothers or other such familial relations he could think of to cool his ardour, so to speak. There was God, of course, but that seemed to close to blasphemy even for a liberated angel such as himself.

Light exercise was the next piece of advice. Aziraphale considers his current position and his hatred of exercise. Crowley’s hand holds his sleep-shirt in a loose grip. He supposed he could ease it off but that would mean Crowley could wake up and see him like this, which would be unacceptable.

On to the next one: a cold shower. Aziraphale had had warm baths before, had liked them. This was doable, perhaps it would even be enjoyable. The bathroom was just down the hall--

Oh. Down the hall. Aziraphale cannot go that far.

That means there is only one solution left to his persistent problem. Masturbation. Or wanking as more people would call it these days or perhaps it was still called self-abuse. What did it matter, the end result was the same. His face flushes. He glances at Crowley’s sleeping face through the corner of his eyes. He looked serene, mouth open and wet. His hair is plastered to the side of his face. He looks sweet. So sweet. He shouldn’t do this, not here, not next to his best friend. This is wrong.

But Crowley is so close and God, does Aziraphale ache.

Carefully, as though expecting pain, he reaches down and grasps himself. He could do this. He will do this. He is doing this. Right now. Heat floods through him. Oh. He didn’t realise anything corporeal could feel like this. He feels the first strings of divinity plucked inside him. The waiting song of exultation. A heavenly chorus. His blood _sings_.

Crowley sighs beside him and now when Aziraphale looks at him—breathless, terrified, unable to stop—he understands kissing. Aziraphale lips tingle. He knows why humans want to do it so often. Aziraphale wants to kiss Crowley. Kiss his stupid little snake tattoo, kiss the bridge of his nose, kiss the space between his eyebrows. He wants to kiss his lips. Ease his tongue into Crowley’s mouth. Yes, he wants to be inside Crowley, where the heat of him is. That would be good. He wants to take all the overwhelming fullness inside of him and give it. He wants Crowley to have it. He wants Crowley to take it from him.

He wants and wants and wants and an angel of God cannot want, should not want for anything, but like good wine and good cake and good books, Aziraphale is greedy for this. For Crowley.

He pumps his cock. He’s the angel of the Eastern gate and he’s pumping his cock next to his oldest, dearest friend whose hand is curled over his heart and the world should have ended but it spins on and on, and he keeps touching himself, rubs the wetness leaking from his slit into his palms. Smooths it over his prick.

_Fuck_, he thinks, delirious. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

He comes.

* * *

Lying on his back with a wet spot of cum cooling on the front of his pyjamas, Aziraphale finds that he doesn’t quite follow the sequence of events that just occurred. Crowley could have woken up at any time during his (how should we call it?) lapse of good judgment. It was an unnecessary risk. It was profoundly stupid. Yet, he can’t say he wouldn’t do it again. In fact, he would do this everyday for the rest of his immortal life if he could. Maybe he could do it again right now—

No. He wrenches himself upwards. He cannot do this again.

It’s odd how tired he is, how loose his body feels, but if he spends anymore time in this bed he doesn’t know what will happen. He miracles away the mess in his pyjamas and eases himself out from under the covers. He can’t go anywhere really, but he can’t keep lying here, dreaming.

Crowley murmurs, unsettled by his movements.

“I’m just getting up for the day, my dear.” Aziraphale whispers, pulling the covers around Crowley, tucking them beneath his body like a warm sausage roll.

Crowley blinks his eyes open; his pupils contract visibly in the half-light of the bedroom. Aziraphale is suddenly conscious of the smell that could be clinging to him. The unmistakable humanity of semen and sweat. “I’ll be up soon.” He sounds disgruntled.

Aziraphale waits for him to get up. There are kissable red lines all over Crowley’s face: pillow marks. Crowley stretches, rolling his shoulders sinuous as a cat, and smiles at Aziraphale. “So what do you want to do today, angel?”

* * *

They should be having a lovely day out in the park. The sun is shining, the ducks are terrorizing more children than usual, the Earth still exists.

But it appears that nothing is sacred anymore.

Aziraphale feels a vast and overwhelming sense of pity for teenagers going through puberty. He had always found them vaguely disgusting beforehand, like walking rags that had been left to soak in sweat and hormones.

He understands now the sheer horror of their existence. Of being unable to look at a vaguely curvy outline before his mind is dragged back into filth.

Over an ice-lolly, no less.

“You alright there, angel?” Crowley asks, his forked tongue peaks out as he licks a sticky drop from the side of his hand.

_Good Heavens_, Aziraphale thinks, struck like a lightning rod in hurricane country.

“Angel?” Crowley says a little more loudly. His hand touches Aziraphale’s waist.

He can feel the group of teenagers’ milling about behind them hearts flutter with the collective internal sigh of _aww_. _It’s not like that_, he wants to say. _How do you live like this_, he wants to ask.

Instead he says: “Oh, I just got a little brain-freeze.” And proceeds to take a large bite of his lolly.

Oh, he is so stupid.

Crowley considers him more once more, unconvinced.

“Let’s go feed the ducks!” Aziraphale says. Crowley loves ducks, those little beasts make hell-hounds look personable. He miracles some bread discreetly into his hand.

Crowley still looks concerned but the thought of beaks with teeth entices him in the direction of the pond. Perhaps a generous donation of more evil water-fowl would make Crowley happy—maybe geese or even swans? Aziraphale’s thoughts are cut short abruptly. His eyes are drawn to the sway of Crowley’s hips. He stares transfixed for a moment.

He feels his soul stretch thin. Wait, he needs to move. Damn this body. Damn this hellish angelic puberty.

He hurries to catch up with Crowley.

* * *

This is intolerable. His situation is completely and totally intolerable. He has gotten a total of five—yes, _five_—erections in one day and has been almost caught staring at Crowley’s arse no less than three times.

Currently, he is staring at Crowley over the top of his collector’s edition signed copy of _American Gods. _

“Aziraphale, what’s wrong?” Crowley asks.

“Nothing at all.” Aziraphale replies smoothly, wiping the dazed look from his face. He turns back to his book and judiciously decides to turn the page. He’s on page two now. He tries reading again but his thoughts are too fractured to focus. The words glaze in front of him. He thinks of how Crowley smells, the earthen brimstone of him. The canyon dark expanse of his wings.

“Thirty minutes,” Crowley says.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale says, snapping away from his sap-sticky thoughts.

“You have been staring at that page for thirty minutes.”

“I have? I mean, I have! There’s a lot happening, you know. Lots of depth and meaning to parse out, you know. The writer looks very promising.”

Crowley looks at him dubiously. “There’s something wrong with you, angel. You’ve been off today.”

Aziraphale laughs high in his throat; he sounds like a wheezing seal. “Really, everything is fine! You’re being paranoid, dear boy.”

“Then why do you keep staring at me?” Crowley asks sharply. His eyes bore into Aziraphale, unblinking and perfectly inhuman.

“I haven’t been staring at you,” Aziraphale says. “Now if you would please let me finish my book.”

Crowley gets up and prowls closer. He leans forward across Aziraphale’s chair, arms bracketing each side of Aziraphale’s head. “Don’t lie to me.” He whispers, right into Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale swallows. Please, he whispers to his circulatory system, do not betray me now. His blood cells scream _revolucion_ and ignore him. “Bastards,” he says under his breath.

“Pardon.” Crowley says sharply. His eyes are acid yellow, pupils thin dark lines. Aziraphale smells burning.

“No! That wasn’t directed you!” Aziraphale says, his hands come up to Crowley’s shoulders. “I promise.”

Crowley’s anger subsides and the smell of hell-fire retreats. Aziraphale is sure that there are two Crowley shaped hand-prints on his favourite armchair. Alas, another victim to his demon’s wrath. Crowley always hated his taste in furniture. “So who was it directed at, angel?” He still hasn’t given Aziraphale any more space.

“Er, myself. Mostly. Parts of myself at least.”

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” Crowley asks softly. He’s worried about Aziraphale.

“I...”The blush on his face glows ruby-red. The furnace in his gut burns heaven-hot._“ _I may have...” He can’t say it.

“Yes?” Crowley's eyebrows raise.

“I may have done something... unangelic.”

“You’ve done unangelic things before, angel.”

The Aziraphale before the Apocalypse would barely have noticed that double entendre, the Aziraphale of today, however, is stuck on it like fly in amber. Him _doing_ something unangelic, like a demon, like Crowley. By God, this is hell.

Crowley jars him out of his thought. He cups Aziraphale’s face, forcing their eyes to meet. His face is kind, hands steady, eyes searching. Aziraphale can taste how much he cares. It’s in the air, this love for him. “You can trust me, Aziraphale,” He says.

Yes. Yes, Aziraphale can.

He screws his courage to the sticking place. They’re just words and he’s said words before. And this is Crowley, his oldest, dearest, kindest friend. “I am terribly sorry but I may have masturbated next to you while you were sleeping.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank u for reading this and staying with this story. IK im trash but I will finish it within the next month.


	5. To Nucleosynthesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Protons and neutrons are formed from quarks. After about 300 seconds, the temperature of the universe falls to the point (about a billion degrees) where atomic nuclei can begin to form as protons and neutrons combine through nuclear fusion to form the nuclei of the simple elements of hydrogen, helium and lithium. After about 20 minutes, the temperature and density of the universe has fallen to the point where nuclear fusion cannot continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long, but I guess this fic acts as a bookend on my first year of uni. So much has changed since I started this. I hope you enjoy the chapter. I am still soft for Aziraphale and Crowley.

“Pardon?” Crowley says, tilting his head. His hands fall away from Aziraphale’s face. He thinks he’s left his brain behind somewhere in the tenth century, or perhaps earlier. Eden, maybe? Or before that: the beginning of things, the first day.

“Oh, don’t make me repeat myself!” Aziraphale exclaims.

Crowley goes still. A soft-haired, awe-struck statue, still leaning over Aziraphale. His eyes have glazed over. The silence stretches on and onward into eternity. God stares at the little screen she’s watching these two idiots through, popcorn forgotten. The best bit is just coming up. What will Crowley say? In the end, just as Aziraphale is about to apologise, tearful, Crowley says, “Oh.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale replies.

“Oh.” Crowley repeats with some vigour. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.” He pushes away from Crowley’s armchair and takes a long, deep breath.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley dubiously. “My dear, you're redder than the apple Eve picked, and you have the same look you did when you had that conversation with Kierkegaard. Are you sure you’re quite well?”

“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine. I was surprised is all. I didn’t know you could do that.” Crowley says. His mind is picking up the pieces of itself, scattering itself into the wind. Minds are useless, crummy things. They fail you just when you need them. Might as well get rid of the whole thing and save yourself the whole trouble of thinking.

“I didn’t know I could either.” Aziraphale says a little helplessly.

“So it was your first time?” Crowley asks and hates himself for it and slumps himself into the chair opposite Aziraphale. Looks at him like a mouse looks at a warm hearth during a winter storm: all beady, needy eyed.

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Crowley says breathless. “What did you think?”_Did you think of me? I always think of you. I’m always thinking of you._

“It was lovely.” Aziraphale says shortly and blushes. “I would prefer if we didn’t talk about it further, thank you.”

“We should talk about it. It troubled you.” Crowley’s mouth runs away with itself. He can’t catch it. He can’t catch the silverfish thoughts that dart from his greedy, love-filled heart and into the open. He’s tried.

Aziraphale looks away from him. “The—the act itself did not trouble me as much as I expected. It was that I did it without you knowing and betrayed—”

“I don’t mind.” There. A silver-spun thought in the air.

“You don’t?” Aziraphale asks, aghast

“I’m still a demon. Masturbation, lust, debauchery. The whole picnic. I love this stuff.”_I love you_. And this time, his stupid heart is so loud and despairing that he hears it. He hears himself think _I love you_. It feels like he’s been thinking it for 6000 years.

Aziraphale’s mouth opens. Closes. “You mean it. It doesn’t disgust you?”

“You could never disgust me. Is that all you were worried about?” Crowley's eyes are warm, his hand reaches out, squeezes Aziraphale’s knee before pulling back. He has beautiful hands, Aziraphale thinks, thin-fingered but strong. The kind of hands you saw on the walls of chapels—ever-reaching, ever-open.

“Not entirely. I—it’s very hard.” Crowley looks down at Aziraphale’s lap. “No, no. I don’t mean like that. It’s difficult to control it at times. I’m new to this sort of thing.”

Crowley looks at him strangely. “I could help.” He says, a silver thought again, unspooling like spider-silk. “I have some experience with these things.”

Aziraphale pauses, thoughts sticky and breath hot. “Are you sure? I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It would be my privilege,” Crowley says ardently, voice thick yet tremulous. Crowley licks his lips and the swipe of his long tongue, so pink and wet, makes Aziraphale breath catch. “Do you want to?”

It’s a funny thing. Aziraphale had thought that after all this time on Earth that he’d understood the vagaries of desire, the pull of temptation. Surely, temptation was a good biscuit, a glass of wine and a star-bright night. Yet, after seeing Crowley like this, he realises he’d never understood even a half of it. The wanting is so sudden and sweet, like the tart burst of fig-flesh in his mouth, like the moon over mountains. By design, angels were never meant to withstand wanting. Why would they? Everything was given to them; heaven was an overwhelming abundance of grace and good. They were never meant to want. God hadn’t thought to put resistance in their nature. Demons were different creatures altogether. Falling changed them; forced on them an ever-felt denial. It is not surprising, therefore, that Aziraphale is weak for it and that Crowley is more repressed than a middle-aged spinster.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, head ringing like a tuning fork. “Yes, please.”

It’s then that Crowley kisses him. It’s a sudden, sweet press—delicate like butterfly wings and stained-glass windows. Crowley’s hands frame his face with sublime gentleness. He makes to pull away but Aziraphale’s hand darts out for his collar and reels him back in. Crowley over-balances, finding himself in a limb-crossed tangle on Aziraphale’s lap.

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind, coming up closer to kiss Crowley again.

Aziraphale finds that he quite likes kissing. Crowley has this sensuousness about him, this slickness of tongue and being that makes him irresistible. He’s so hot inside too, warm and yielding to the press of Aziraphale’s mouth and fingers. Like a creme brulee maybe, a crystalline exterior that breaks with the faintest of pressure to expose sweetness and custard. Crowley is melting caramelised sugar, hot to touch and sinfully sweet.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says feverishly, “I think I’m creasing your book’s spine.”

“Never mind about books now,” Aziraphale says and kisses him again. “This is much more important.”

Crowley is heaven-struck. He had always assumed that in the hierarchy of Aziraphale’s wants he ranked somewhere above aged cheese but far below books. Crowley was good for a conversation and a pleasant evening—a nice thing to have here and there but not a necessity. Aziraphale uses Crowley’s shock as an opportunity to nip at his neck and hold him more firmly.

Crowley makes a quiet noise. It’s a breathless thing, more hitch than sound. Aziraphale adores it. He kisses Crowley again, trying to draw it out from him a second time and perhaps a third and then maybe a thousand more. He’s not very good at restraint. Aziraphale wants to make a church chorus from Crowley’s sighs, a hymn from his breath. Crowley's hands scrabble against Aziraphale’s jacket.

It’s an embarrassing fact for ethereal creatures, but as much as they would like to think they have complete mastery over their corporeal bodies, the truth of the matter was that they had as about as much control over autonomous functions as the average human. Of course, they could miracle away those feelings if they so chose (and many did). When asked about this supposed design flaw in God had replied it would be better for angels who were “going native,” as they could relate to their charges a little more. The real reason, however, was more ineffable; it made things much more interesting for her. She was right.

“Oh darling, you sound wonderful. Would you do that again?” Aziraphale says rapturously, like he’s asking Crowley to indulge him with a chocolate truffle from his plate. Except the indulgence is Crowley himself.

“Wait, wait, angel,” Crowley says and pulls back, angling himself so that Aziraphale’s greedy mouth can’t reach him, “I want to do this properly.”

Aziraphale looks at him with fever-bright eyes, hands tucked neatly against Crowley’s waist. “What about this is improper?” He says with all the innocence of the known universe.

Crowley feels his face heat, “Well, we should be on a bed firstly.” He finds himself lying back on a bed, staring up at the ceiling before he has time to close his mouth.

“I thought you didn’t like using miracles for... frivolous purposes.” Crowley says slowly, tongue catching the late train while the rest of him is pulled swiftly ahead by Aziraphale. Too fast indeed.

“My dear, this is far from frivolous. I’d say it’s urgent.” Aziraphale says, lying beside him, hands still on Crowley’s sides. They move with utmost care; thumbs pressing into ribs, fingers sliding down Crowley’s back. “I want you terribly.”

It’s a chaste confession, spoken from an angelic mouth with all the grace of Heaven. Yet its content—its meat and matter—is corrupt. “You don’t really want me. This is just—it doesn’t mean anything.” Crowley says, and to his horror, he sounds almost tearful.

Aziraphale leans forward and kisses him again—on his cheeks, down to his nose and chin. They’re soft kisses, the kind that are shared between first loves under star-lit nights, underneath willow trees to the trill of cicadas and the smell of jasmine. They’re fairy-tale kisses, the sort Aziraphale has read about in a hundred thousand stories, and his naive belief has borne them into being on Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale pulls back, looks deep into Crowley’s eyes. “You are my oldest friend,” he says. “You are the bravest creature I’ve ever met. The kindest too—don’t make that face; it’s true. I-I know that I have done many things in these past few years that have hurt you. I am sorry.”

“Angel—angel, you haven’t done anything. You didn’t—” Crowley says softly.

“I know I have,” Aziraphale interrupts. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve been thinking on it for some time now. Before the apocalypse even happened. Forgive me, I’m not quite as clear-eyed or as clever as you. I spent too long waiting when the answer was right in front of me. I love you and I would like it, Crowley,” and he leans breathlessly close, so that the heat of him, the smell of book-dust and ionised air, of candle wax and baked bread overwhelms Crowley; Aziraphale is all he can breathe.“If there could be more between than friendship between us.”

Demons can sense deception, and in Aziraphale’s heart there is none. It is hard for Crowley to grasp. There is no use in asking if Aziraphale means it, even if he wasn’t a demon—it’s all there in his eyes. They are so soft, so kind and finally Crowley can recognise love in them too. “I love you too,” He says, feeling like solar wind ripped by the atmosphere into the aurora. He feels stretched out, aglow with adoration, with ardour. God in heaven laughs giddily. _Finally_, she thinks, _fucking finally_.

Aziraphale leans forward and presses him into the bed. It’s plush and soft. Aziraphale is so plush and soft. Crowley’s hands fist against Aziraphale’s back. His body yields to him, fills the space of Crowley’s palms and the yawning ache in his chest. His lips are like cotton and clouds, like those children’s drawings of heaven. “You’re so—” Crowley starts, “You’re so perfect. I’m so lucky to have you.”

Aziraphale hums against him, pleased and peach-pink. He preens under the praise. Aziraphale kisses along his cheekbone to his tattoo and stops, nose brushing against his hairline. “You’re quite lovely yourself,” Aziraphale whispers, “and I would like to see much more of you, my dear.”

Crowley trembles beneath him. He’d never expected that Aziraphale would want to undress him. Aziraphale senses his hesitation and pulls back. “It’s alright if you aren’t ready. I don’t want to pressure you—”

Crowley sighs,“I have my own confession to make, angel.” He pauses and looks at Azirphale’s face: from the delicate upturn of his nose to the curve of his cheeks. He deserves the truth. He deserves better things than a six-thousand-year-old demon who doesn’t even know how to make him feel good. “This is my first time too.”

Aziraphale makes an odd noise in his chest and his breath picks up. Crowley doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s then that he feels Aziraphale’s mouth on him again, clumsy and hot. His tongue traces out Crowley’s bottom lip as if asking permission. Crowley opens his mouth—he’d do anything Aziraphale asks—and then there’s a tongue in his mouth. It’s a curious feeling. Hot. Wet. Slippery. And it sparks inside Crowley that Aziraphale is inside him for the first time. They don’t need to breathe but soon Crowley finds the urge unbearable. He pulls away and Aziraphale rests his forehead against his. “Forgive me, Crowley,” his voice is pitched deep and warm, “but I think your confession might have led to the opposite of its intent. I find it quite—” a shudder passes through him “—invigorating to know that I’m the first person to see you like this.”

Crowley finds himself struck dumb. Aziraphale continues, blushing, heedless.

“Can we go further? I promise I’ll go slow.” His fingers are threaded through Crowley's belt loops, knuckles white.

“No,” Crowley says. Aziraphale immediately lets go. “No, no, you foolish creature. Don’t go slow. I want to see how much you want me. I don’t want to wait anymore. As the humans now say—” He gives a horrific leer as he pulls Aziraphale towards him, “I’m a real speed demon.”

Aziraphale lets out a bark of laughter. “That was an absolutely terrible joke,” he says, pleased as a well-fed cat, “and know that I am only laughing because I love you and not because it was actually funny.” Crowley’s humour always disarmed him; he could be so wonderfully silly at times. It’s a privilege only he gets to see.

The tension slips out of the room, out of their bodies. They’ve known each other for six millennia. They’ve probably been in love with each other for over half of it and never known. They’d defeated the combined forces of heaven and hell together. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore, least of all each other.

Crowley kisses Aziraphale this time. Let’s Aziraphale’s hands wander to his chest and undo his finicky buttons. Aziraphale tries threading them through one by one, before growing tired and miracling Crowley’s shirt away. Crowley groans as Aziraphale’s fingers touch the bare skin of his back. Both Eve and Crowley learnt shame in the garden, and it is only now, so many years later, in this unholy unravelling, in this pious unbaring, that he is letting himself forget.

He reaches down to undo Aziraphale’s trousers, pushes them down his hips and onto the floor. Aziraphale look a bit absurd, chest heaving and trouser-less but still wearing a jacket, a velvet vest and a shirt. Crowley miracles it all away.

They both have fairly standard corporations. Nothing too fancy. None of the bells and whistles that archangels or Demon Lords get. Yet, when Crowley looks at Aziraphale’s cock all he can think is that it is perfect. It curves upwards, flushed and fat and red all over. He doesn’t have all the words to describe it—Aziraphale would, what from all those eons he's spent with his nose in books. All Crowley knows is that he wants it in him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, hushed and rapturous, “it’s your turn.” Crowley shrugs his trousers off, climbing atop of Aziraphale. There is something about the glow of Crowley’s eyes, the slender cinch of his waist, the prettiness of his neck and collarbones and wrists that inspire art in him. Crowley makes Aziraphale think of David, of his delicate veins carved from marble. Crowley is a being of heated rock, made of stone found only in the centre of the Earth, and he is gorgeous—constructed with such fineness as to make Michelangelo weep. He reaches down between the press of their bodies and circles a hand around their cocks. Crowley’s twitches in his grasp, leaks a pearly drop that smears like a kiss on the head of Aziraphale’s cock.

Crowley shakes above him, falling onto Aziraphale. He moves his hips, and then they find it: that rhythm endowed to all creatures. That resonance of touch of between the two of them. Crowley keens, fingers gripping the flesh of Aziraphale’s arms, as he rocks them together.

“You feel so good, angel,” he says, “I want you so badly. Will you—Could you—” He wants to say it. He wants Aziraphale to know how much he wants him—the breathless extent of his love. He’s a creature built for wanting, made to ache and be filled.

“My darling,” Aziraphale whispers, “I would do anything for you. Just ask and I’ll give you everything.” He jerks their pricks together, looks at Crowley with such kindness, his lips parted to reveal the inside of his mouth, his pink tongue and white teeth, and even farther inside, the glow of divinity. Crowley loves him helplessly.

“I want you to fuck me,” Crowley whispers into his mouth.

Aziraphale makes a fervent noise. “Of course, my dear.” He tilts his head up and kisses Crowley, pressing his tongue inside with more purpose. Crowley lets him, pliant and soft-lipped, allows himself to taste heaven. He deserves this. After all these years spent waiting, after the saving the whole damned world, he deserves this.

Aziraphale flips them around, grinds into Crowley. “Would you like me to prepare you the normal way or would you prefer the quicker route?” He asks, and he looks a little bit terrified.

Crowley reaches out for him, tangles his fingers in his pretty white-blond hair. Aziraphale looks calmer now, leans into Crowley’s touch like a flower towards the sun. “I don’t care. I want you in me now, angel.” Crowley hooks his knees behind Aziraphale, tilts his hips up and feels the shape of Aziraphale’s cock against his arse and rubs against it. Aziraphale moans and it’s a glorious sound. Suddenly, Crowley is loose and wet. Heavens above, he’s loose and wet for Aziraphale. He’s going to be filled up, fucked full. Aziraphale will make a glutton of him. “Please—” He says again, but then his voice falters. Aziraphale presses the fat head of his cock inside him.

“You feel perfect. So hot and tight, my dear. You are sublime,” Aziraphale says and he looks at Crowley like no one ever has before. Like Crowley is precious and _good_. Crowley’s only ever wanted to be good.

The flush in Crowley’s cheeks travels down his neck and into his chest. He’s red wherever Aziraphale touches him. He moans, desperate. “More, please. Angel, I need it. Please.”

Aziraphale slips all the way inside of him. There’s no resistance. He kisses Crowley's neck, “My dear, you don’t need to beg. I won’t go anywhere.”

Aziraphale rocks his hips sharply; his cock splits Crowley open, lets them both become apart of something greater. He keeps moving like that: gently, with patience, even though Crowley knows he has none. Aziraphale is doing this for him, he realises, because he wants Crowley to feel good. Crowley looks up at Aziraphale open mouthed and eyes wide, the colour so brilliant and bright, like the first dawn over the sand and sea of the new world.

“Do you promise?” Crowley asks, his breath coming in short; a lock of sweaty hair sticks to his forehead.

With gentle fingers, Aziraphale smooths his hair back. “Yes, my darling. I promise to stay with you always.”

Crowley makes a hitching noise, like Aziraphale has broken him open. And Aziraphale has; he’s opened up Crowley’s chest and found diamonds in him, found rubies and emeralds and liquid gold in his veins. Crowley’s body is a wealth of precious metal, full of smokeless fire and the heat of the undergrowth of Eden. Aziraphale has found Crowley’s empty core and has poured himself _in_.

Crowley’s heart is a heavenly chorus. It is the opposite of Falling. It is like hearing God inside him except it is a beloved voice, a careful voice of pretty words and food and wine and good things, which does not belong to Her. He hears Aziraphale; his sighs, his moans, his _I-love-yous_. He hears himself; he hears the crush and slide of their bodies.

“Come for me,” Aziraphale says as he grips Crowley’s cock. “You deserve it.” His hands are soft, the spaces between his fingers slick and wet. “Let go.” And Crowley does, coming all over Aziraphale’s hands, onto their stomachs and skins.

Aziraphale crushes Crowley to his chest, moves with sticky rolls of his hips that grow jagged with lust until Crowley can feel him come inside him with an awestruck _ah_. He’s so wet, so full, so good. They hold each other until the blood recedes from their skin and their breath becomes deep and even. They could hold each other forever, until the stars fade and the universe stretched so far even atoms are ripped asunder, and even then, they wouldn’t be split apart.

They hold each other until they fall asleep.

* * *

Crowley wakes somewhere in the wee hours of the morning. He feels wonderful warmth all around him, and an overwhelming sense of peace with the world that he’s never quite felt before. In modern vernacular we would say he’s in a well-shagged glow.

He doesn’t want to wake up but he’s feeling quite sticky and a bit more sweaty than he’s used to. Did he accidentally set the thermostat to hell-fire again?

He opens his eyes and sees Aziraphale’s face. “Aziraphale!” He says rather dumbly in surprise.

Aziraphale does not open his eyes. “Five more minutes please,” he says and sticks his face into the hollow beside Crowley’s neck.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says again, utterly soppy for the sight of Aziraphale’s face smushed against his pillow. “I’ve got to clean the both of us up. Just wake up for a minute, angel.”

Aziraphale hums and opens his eyes. He too is in a well-shagged haze, and it takes some time for his brain to catch up. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t realise I was still on top of you.” He rolls off Crowley.

“I don’t mind,” Crowley mutters. “S’nice having you so close.”

Aziraphale beams at him. “I always knew you’d be a cuddler.” In a snap, they’re both clean and pyjama-d for bed. Crowley could do with a rest and maybe another shag in the morning.

“Do you suppose we should check?” Aziraphale asks.

“Check what, angel?” Crowley yawns. He’s feeling quite tired and well-loved. It’s making him very sleepy.

Aziraphale raises an eye-brow at him. “Check if our _knowing _of one another and ourselves worked.”

“Oh, I’d forgotten about that,” Crowley says. “You can try if you want. I don’t think I care much anymore. I’m not planning to let you a foot away away from me, let alone five metres. We’ve got sixty centuries of sexual fantasies to work through.”

Aziraphale blushes, eyes downcast like Victorian maiden. But, of course, he has the most self-satisfied smile on his face. The bastard. Crowley wants to cuddle him.

He wiggles into the bed, leaving an empty space next to him. Aziraphale slides in beside him and curls his arms around Crowley’s middle and tangles their legs together. His head rest soft against Crowley’s shoulder so that his hair tickles the underside of Crowley’s chin. It’s altogether so maddeningly sweet that God takes a surreptitious photograph. She’ll leave a copy of it somewhere in the flat. They’ll thank her for this.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, just as Crowley’s about to cross the winding path into sleep and dreams, “I’m surprised you hadn’t figured out that I’d begun wanting you. Can’t your kind sense lust?”

Aziraphale’s kind can sense love, but it seems that they both are rather stupid when it comes to each other. Crowley doesn’t say that. There’s no point being bitter when he has everything he wants now. “I did suspect something, angel. I’m not a fool. You did google how to stop an erection on my phone.”

“I told you to be quiet about it!” Aziraphale says sternly in the direction Crowley's phone, which is innocently charging on the bedside table. It gives no response. To think he trusted Siri and prayed for her immortal soul!

Crowley sighs, “Angel, you know that phones aren’t sentient, right?”

“Of course I do.” Aziraphale blusters. “But then, uh, how do you know what I boogled, you said?”

Satan help him. How is he in love with such a luddite? Crowley explains slowly, as if speaking to a toddler (which he was surprisingly good at; toddlers and most hell-bound demons shared a fairly similar intelligence level and capacity for evil), “It was the first thing that popped up when I opened my phone in the morning. It’s something called internet history. It records everything you search, what webpages you visit.”

“I see.” Aziraphale nods, and he clearly doesn’t. “Erm, Crowley, what’s a webpage?”

Crowley nestles more firmly into Aziraphale. He’ll deal with his angel’s technological illiteracy tomorrow. “I’ll explain it later.”

* * *

“Do you think it was mean of us not to tell them?” Newton asks, carefully setting his pen aside and looking up from his Doctor Who-themed crossword.

“Tell who what?” Anathema asks, wiggling her toes beneath the blanket on Newton’s lap as she skips to the next episode of _Dear White People_.

Newton looks at her meaningfully, “Our angel and demon friend.”

Anathema snorts. “Nope, no way.”

“It doesn’t seem right with us knowing the end of their prophecy and them having no idea.” He looks quite troubled.

“You’ve got a good heart, Newt, but trust me on this one. Those two needed to figure it out on their own.

“Needed to? Have they um,” Newt blushes quite prettily, “done what they needed to do to get unstuck?”

Anathema smiles. Netflix can wait. She sets her laptop far away enough that Newton can’t touch it (he really does have a way with technology) and kisses him on the cheek.

“Agnes Nutter hasn’t been wrong yet.” It was nice that the last prophecy she’d managed to see crackling in the flames hadn’t concerned her or any of her own descendants. Instead, it was a sweet little prophecy about an angel and demon who loved each other and were too stupid to know it, and their long-awaited amorous encounter. Some matches, as they say, are made in Heaven. This one had the rare honour of being made by God Herself.

Newton turns to face her. She takes off his glasses, and he blinks a little stupidly. He has nice eyes. “Do you think they’ll be okay now?” He asks.

While Anathema may not have the same _intuitive prowess_ as her ancestor Agnes Nutter, she still has a fair idea of what must be happening in a darkened bedroom in a nice plant-and-book-filled Soho flat. What’s more, she even has a pretty strong inkling of their future: The demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale will be quite happy together.

“Yes, I think they’ll be just fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologise about how long this fic took to finish. I over-extended myself like shit in uni and basically died emotionally for a year (also moving to a new country where you don’t know anyone is hard). I thought I’d get more work done in quarantine but online college was wayyy worse than I expected. And readjusting to home was also difficult after I got shipped back because of coronavirus. This fic was a nice breather from the genuine shit storm of real-life. I wanted to finish it so bad but I got sucked into a vortex of worrying about my grades and work and everything else. I guess fandom has also been pretty toxic for me these past few months; every time I’d try and dip my toes back in, I’d see all this drama caused by anti-shippers in different fandoms and it would just make me sad. No one deserves to get death threats for their ships or what they write. 
> 
> I hope you guys can understand the weird mix of problems that led to these delays. I started on the last chapter the moment my last final was done. Thank you all for sticking around. I really appreciate it.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are love <3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at www.intrepyd-crouching-queer.tumblr.com i dont check it often but I'm happy to chat!


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